Love, the Future is Thine
by Emilylondon
Summary: The barricade has fallen, the rebellion has been suppressed. Les Amis are all dead, and Eponine has followed suit. In this purgatory-like Heaven they have been trapped in, they are given a final chance to right a wrong from their lives. They are not told what this wrong is, but they are unable to pass on until they do so correctly. Eventual E/E
1. Chapter 1: While the Blood is Cleaned

A/N: I apologize in advance.

_Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any of the characters, if I did, I would be a far more interesting person._

The rain tumbled down in waves as she lay in the gruesome rubble of the barricade. Sight had left her an hour previously and she had reached the point where she could only beg that feeling would leave her too, the throbbing pain in her chest replacing sound with a screaming anger. She had heard people she had almost considered friends die around her. She had heard Gavroche's final words, and then the gunfire that silenced them. If she could, she would've screamed out- begged for someone to save him. But no one would have. Everyone was far more concerned with the bullets flying for the barrels of the National Guard's guns. They were more concerned with a New France, a new life for them all. There was no way to turn back time and even if there were, would anyone truly use that to save some street urchin scum? It was thoughts like these that consumed her mind during the last hours of her life.

And then she heard it.

"Marius!"

Someone, Grantaire? Feuilly? called out his name, and there was movement. If she could have moved, she would have, she would have grabbed for him and held him close. The world was seemingly working against her. The bullet lodged deep inside of her prevented any such movement and the insanity that was slowly taking over her won out. She screamed internally and prayed that she too could go and that at least his death was quick and painless.

She prayed to God that he would be in heaven above. She prayed that although she would never make it to the Golden Gates, she prayed that it would feel like no time until he was reunited with Cosette. And finally, as the last remnants of her broken life left her, she prayed that he would never forget her. The dark encompassed her, and as quickly as she made her last prayer, the world forgot her, damning her to the Heaven she was never sure existed.

There were no bright, shining lights. No glorious music, no singing angels. She was in a room with hard wood floors and flagstone walls. It was chilly, but not extremely so. She assumed that this was Hell. Not that she had been expecting any differently. She had done no right in her lifetime, as far as the good book had ascertained.

Certainly she had done far less bad than the men who had used her and left her broken, bruised and bloody body in the shadows of alleyways. And she had definitely done fewer wrongs than her father and le Patron-Minette, who had sold her into such a life, and who had robbed, extorted and towards the end, murdered the innocents of the streets of Paris.

But still, the other side of the coin that now served to demonstrate the goodness and evils of her life was grimy and rough.

She had been whored out, not by her own choice, but she had still been whored out.

_Strike one against her._

She had stolen from innocent people, whether a loaf of bread, or clothing, she had still stolen.

_Strike two._

And she had lusted after someone. Oh, it was quick and meaningless, but it was lust, not the feeling of love she had for Marius, but that instantaneous lust she had held for Montparnasse.

It was the golden boy, as she had nicknamed him. And this lust for him had lasted less than a minute, as she had looked behind Marius when he was holding her. She saw the golden boy, pulling his shirt off to create a bandage for the poet. His alabaster skin was glistening with sweat and she couldn't tear her eyes away, even through the blinding pain.

_Strike three._

The pain was gone, but the ache in her chest wasn't. It was a dull, pounding ache, one she recognized from every moment Marius had talked to her about Cosette. There was a humming noise, and she adjusted herself so she could hear it better. It was coming from outside the stony walls. But she surmised that she would never find out what that noise was, there were no doors or windows in this room. Her and her thoughts alone. Which, if the reader will excuse the horrific plot device, that has just been used, creates the perfect moment to describe those thoughts.

She had been quite unsure where she was. She had prayed for Heaven, but spent her whole life understanding her afterlife to be Hell. The confusion that followed sprouted from the observation that her body was mended, and she was dressed in the most beautiful silk gown she had ever seen, or dreamt of. It was not something streetwalker trash like her could ever afford. There was more too it too, her hair had been washed and combed, and was now as soft as cashmere. Her face equaled that softness, and the grime no longer cling to her face like barnacles to a boat. But this could not be Heaven, there was no way St. Peter would have admitted her. So she quickly dispelled this theory and instead came to understand that this was Hell, and while she may have felt beautiful, she would have no way to display it, and this room would be her prison for the rest of eternity.

As she had become accustomed to being told in her short lifespan, she was wrong. When she pushed herself off the ground, a door materialized at the far end of the room and, deciding that if this was indeed Hell, she might as well get the grand tour over straight away. She walked towards this newly realized door, and pushed it open with a surprising ease, considering the height and width of the door.

Now, her confusion was heightened. She was at le Cafe Musain, and was surrounded by les Amis de L'ABC. All of them except for Marius. She rechecked her observation. Yes: the drunkard, fan maker, romantic, the charismatic one, Courfeyrac (she knew his name so well only because he was Marius' closest friend and had once housed him), the philosopher, the doctor and the duke, and the one she recognized from the other cafés.  
In the centre of all of them, seemingly radiating glory was the golden boy. They were all talking loudly, laughing and chatting away as if it were nothing. Pulling up the skirt of her dress, Eponine approached the drunkard who was on the fringe of the group.  
"Salut monsieur, c'est tout d'accord?" She eyed him closely, and reacted similarly when his eyes widened at the sight of her.  
"Mademoiselle Eponine, I think I have the right to ask you the same!" She held back a scowl at him, and decided that now was not the time to be fighting with people who may be of assistance.  
"Monsieur, I believe I am dead, but what does that make you?"  
"Only dead as well, but I ask you because you are sent to where you are needed, and you are of no use here!"  
"Ouais, c'est plus vrai, mais, you're a drunk, I don't see how you could possibly be any use either."  
"Yes, but this Heaven is a Hell for me; so many dead and no spirits to drink the thoughts away."  
"But if they're dead, then are they not here?"  
"Look around, mademoiselle, tell me, do you see that younger brother of yours?" There was truth in this, Gavroche was nowhere to be seen. And if this was Heaven where was Marius? Surely she had not been admitted to Heaven where he had not!  
"Then this is Hell?"  
"It varies from person to person. For someone like Grantaire here, it very well may be, but for someone like me, I find it to be very pleasant." The philosophical one turned to speak to them. Combeferre!,that's what his name was, she had heard it yelled a few times on the barricade.  
"So what is this then, is it purgatory?"  
"Figuratively, yes. What I have come to believe this is, is a place to right wrongs of the past. Where you fix things that were supposed to happen but never did."  
"Mais monsieur, I have no purpose here! I have no relation to any of you unless Marius is here. Which he's not! Where is he?" She demanded this in the spoiled whine she had used so often.  
"He is still alive, we are assuming, or else he has other places to right wrongs and none of them are here. "  
"I'm here." She muttered angrily, looking down at her bare feet. Combeferre and the drunk (She thought maybe his name was Grantaire, but was unsure and did not wish to risk the embarrassment of being wrong) both looked at her and then each other.  
"Well what wrong must I right? Have I been whored out to anyone in here? Was I not good enough for the money?" She spat at no one and nothing in particular.  
"I strongly doubt that you have been. But you do raise an important question, all of us have yet to figure out what wrong we have to right amongst ourselves. In complete fairness and in order to save our pride, I only proposed this hypothesis this morning and we only affirmed it at lunchtime."  
"Time does pass here then?"  
"Mademoiselle, of course it does! You don't understand yet, but we are standing in an exact replica of our world, only with an air of perfection to it. Time passes normally, every thing is the same! But of course, we are not. To find the purpose of our being here is like rediscovering the meaning of life. Who knows when or where we'll find it. Almost like a game of Russian roulette." She had made a face at this remark. It seemed almost crude to make a metaphor about a death-game in the afterlife, but she sweetened herself to this once it registered itself as logical in her mind.  
"Is there any means of seeing the real world? The world below-or, or above?" She asked this with an undertone of cowardice to this, as she knew it was highly likely she would dislike what she saw.  
"I've been working on that, but unfortunately for all of us, I've come up with no solution. Donc, qui aimerait un peu du nourriture?" The group at large turned to face him, chiming in their sounds of agreement, and Eponine was lost within the mass.


	2. Chapter 2: While the Bones are Set

**A/N: Hi, all! I received some really positive feedback (as in, lots of you read!) for the last chapter, so I'm hoping I can keep up my quality level for this chapter. I would like to thank BlueRoseParamour for not only reading and reviewing, but also giving me the inspiration for my characterizations of Grantaire, Courfeyrac and Enjolras. It was so, so helpful. I've drawn some inspiration for the more emotional parts from my life, and I stole a line (I'll make it stand out) from Nowhere Boy.**

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis, outside of my (sadly) abridged copy. If I could own all the characters in it, I'd be thrilled. But I don't, and that is that.**_

She supposed that her wrongdoings had something to do with her criminal life. What she could not understand was how she was suppose to correct this wrong if she was stuck here, and anyone she'd ever wronged was up (or down) and elsewhere. It had dawned on her that night, while she lay awake in her cot, that perhaps she might have wronged one of the men who lay in similar cots in adjacent rooms to hers. She had attempted to dispel this thought from her mind, but found whatever thought she used against it could also be used for it. Thus began the never ending debate in her mind, and using every last ounce of knowledge (which was very little if one actually accounted for her lack of any proper education outside of which she gleaned from Marius.) to reflect upon her interactions with the Friends, and see where she may have gone wrong. These thoughts, however, led her to that relentless roadblock that is fatigue, and before she could finish her analysis of the golden boy, she was asleep.

Her sleep was interrupted frequently though, and her thoughts returned to her wrongdoings. It seemed as if every time she was close, she drifted back off to sleep only to be awoken less than an hour later.

This pattern continued the night through until she eventually forced calming images upon her mind and it shut itself down. Her sleep from that moment on was the deepest sleep she had ever experienced.

She didn't need help, and she was stubborn in this decision. An entire day had passed, and she had interacted very little with the Amis. This had taken very little effort on her part and she had become quite contented with her solitude.

Without any paper to organize her thoughts, her mind had run in circles, chasing it's own tail. She had wandered out of her room and padded softly down the hallway. A light murmur in one of the other rooms caught her easily distracted attention, and she paused. There was a subtle light exiting every crack and crevice in the door. She pressed her ear against the door and listened in.

"There's nothing else to say about it." A lower voice said, and she recognized it as Golden Boy's. Even at such a low volume, the undertone of revolution still laced his voice.

"Yes there is, and you are well aware. We must decide what the facts are." That must have been Combeferre: none of the others could interact so freely with Golden Boy and vice versa.

"How do we decide facts if we're not even sure we're talking to each other right now?" Even with a thick, oak door between her and them, the air had been knocked out of her. How very self-aware of him to say, she had spent the entire time here trying to figure out what she had done wrong, but what was to say she was even here? This could all just be a hallucination from blood loss.

"You remember dying, and I remember the second before I did. That will do for me. Facts come along quickly after. For example, we know that all of us our here, returned completely safe and unharmed, as if it were nothing; but we know we are missing Marius, and that in itself is up to interpretation, as I saw him fall, and called out to him after he had fallen. You had seen him lying there lifeless. Than we can be assured he is dead. He is not with us however, which leaves a lot of loose ends, so to speak. Perhaps his darling Cosette-."

"That's ludicrous, proposing that she had died too makes no sense, she was wealthier than he, and she was a proper woman, no reason for her to run onto the barricade like that street tramp that followed him around."

Barely tearing herself away, and ignoring the fact that she was making more noise than the average frightened elephant, she stormed back to her room, anger spilling out of her. She threw herself down on her bed in a manner that seemed more suited to Azelma than to her. Flipping over, crossing her arms over her chest and exhaling angrily, she was able to see nothing but red. Her indignation manifested itself as tears, and her whole body heaved and shuddered as she sobbed like a brat.

Unexpectedly for her, no one bothered to come comfort her, to apologize, or to see if she was all right. She was left utterly alone, and she quickly realized this, bringing her sobs down to a more reasonable volume, rather than the attention-seeking volume they had been at before.

It was raining when she awoke, and she was fine with this, until she realized the oddity of it all. It was raining in paradise, which had to be a joke in some high-class circles somewhere in France, certainly. She did not get out of bed, for she had no reason to. Food was secured, money was irrelevant and she had no possessions to clean. Rather, she rolled over to the colder side of her pillow, and attempted to take an interest in that panelling of the wall in front of her.

In due course, she brought herself out of bed, deciding that it might be time to face other people. There was a weight on her chest, and she wasn't sure if it was because she had fallen asleep to thoughts of Marius the night previously, or because of what she had heard Golden Boy saying about her. Not that his conceptions of her mattered anyways, but being thought of as trash by someone so respected was definitely enough to put a damper on her ego.

Inside the room that was meant to replace le Café Musain, she found only one of the Amis. The drunk, whose name she had discerned truly was Grantaire, was sitting at a table, a book in his hands. Surprised to see him at least pretending to be scholarly, she decided this to be the best place to start a conversation, if she was to forge a friendship with him.

"Quel livre est-ce?" She asked, setting herself down ever so lightly on the chair that she may as well have been a high-class gentlewoman.

"Reveries of the Solitary Walker." He said, softly, completely immersed in his book.

"Is that an English book?" She asked, she had often heard educated people asking that and employed this method frequently with Marius, in a hurried attempt to look moderately educated.

"Non, c'est Jean-Jacques Rousseau." She made a noise of agreement. This is what she was terrified would happen, but she took it silently, striving to be more lady like, and less of complying with the stereotypes of average street scum.

The odd pair sat in silence, while he carried on reading his novel. The awkward tenseness of the room had become so stern that even Eponine's frantic attention span took notice of it. She was very close to getting up, when he set his book down.

"Combeferre asked me not to speak of it, but sometimes things are too overt to ignore." She looked at him in awe. While it has been said that there are firsts for everything, she never thought she'd hear the day he'd speak like the other Amis; this was the first time he'd sound as educated as he was.

"Your yearning for him is unbearably blatant, and you've spent all of fifty minutes in my presence. Before Combeferre comes back, I just would like to you understand that we are all concerned for Marius, and as soon as we're aware of where he is, you'll know."

She found herself staring into his eyes. They commanded hers with a force that could become detrimental to some poor woman one day. They lines are his eyes that usually signified recent laughter were no longer there, and his irises seemed a thousand shades darker, not the usual light brown, they almost seemed black. These eyes were not the cheerful drunkard's eyes, they were the eyes of a time-hardened revolutionist who had loved and lost, fought and lost, and lost just about every other source of happiness. This detail in itself was almost enough for her to respect him every bit as much as Courfeyrac or Golden Boy, but before she was able to define this respect in her sub-conscious, her jittery conscious had taken her from the Café to her room, without her realization of the movement.

She slept well that evening, because even if it was a one-sided relationship, she still had someone who understood her emotions. But brewing in the same part of her sub-conscious that had created respect for Grantaire was a storm of emotion for another Ami. One that had made him fruit défendu, not another person making him the fruit défendu. But such is life (or more appropriately, the after-life) and while Eponine's mind frolicked in dreams of Marius, it began schemeing of another.

**A/N: I'm so sorry about such a short update. As soon as final exams are over I'll do a nice, long, quality update. Also, I will cross-plane hug you if you understand why I mention Jean-Jacques Rousseau.**

**Cheers!**

**x**


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